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The smoke is still rising in curling climbing clouds of muted red plumes, reaching up into the nothing above. It mingles with a dry dusty mist that unfurls over the scene and obscures almost everything but the crumpled figure of the man on the ground. He is motionless for just one minute more before he groans groggily, as if he’s waking up from a long sleep, moves his head and pushes himself up onto his knees. He blinks once, twice, and again, still squinting as he struggles to focus his vision on anything around him. However, there doesn’t appear to BE anything around him. He has a vague idea of being in a room but it is hard to tell because the mist is so dense, he cannot even see his own hand if he stretches his arm out in front of him. The fog has swallowed everything.
The floor below him is spattered with fresh blood but when he presses a tentative hand to it, his fingertips feel nothing. There is no wet touch of the liquid, no feel of the floor beneath it, and what’s more, there is no accompanying scent either; not the tell-tale metallic odour of spilled blood or the heavy choke of the cloaking smog in his lungs. His physical senses seem to have abandoned him; all but sight, although in this heavy mist, it is hard to rely on that either. The feeling of being numb all over scares him a little and he staggers to his feet.
It’s only at that very moment when, drawn up to his full height and looking down at his unsteady legs that he realises why he can’t feel them either: there is nothing there TO feel. He is no longer in the body he has lived in for so long but what can only be described as a ghostly image of it and when he looks again at his hands, he can see through them as if the particles of dust in the air are floating right into his translucent skin.
And then he remembers.
He remembers those last moments as if they are the only moments that ever existed in his life. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to recall but the feel of the man’s hand in his, the quiet smile on his face (did anyone else ever look at him at all during his entire life? He can no longer remember any other eyes, nor any other look than that last one), and somewhere in the background he can hear the crack of guns being fired, the memory of the heat, that last moment of exquisite love and exquisite pain fighting against each other before the blackness came and swallowed it all.
And now here he is, and it’s like waking from a dream and a nightmare combined yet still being asleep. This is the room he died in, he’s almost sure of it now, not from any visual clues as such but the memory that is being held in the very air that surrounds him, smoky and dense with something he can’t identify; a memory trying to make itself flesh? He can’t be sure, but what he can be sure of is that he is now very much alone here.
And he wasn’t alone when he came here.
He shouldn’t be alone.
Where is he?
“Enjolras?” the word seems to echo from him and he’s not even sure if he said it aloud, if he even CAN say it aloud in this form, but he can hear his own voice in his head and it sounds as haunting to hear as it feels to say.
As soon as he hears the name of the other man spoken in his own tongue, it is like a key is turned in a lock deep inside him and everything comes flooding back in a single second that he feels sure will stay with him forever; as long as forever may end up being in whatever this place is. It is hard to believe there is nothing physical of him here to feel with because the sudden panic and emptiness is overwhelmingly painful to endure. If he could cry tears, he feels certain they would be pooling in his eyes and spilling over at this very second but although he can feel nothing of a physical nature, he feels heavy with emotions, tying him to a place he’s not sure he wants to be. It is an unsettling new experience and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Enjolras… where are you?” he says again because he needs to hear the man’s name again. He needs to know that just because he can no longer see him that he exists. That he’s real. That he’s… somewhere.
“You won’t find him here.”
The man turns around to see a girl he once knew walking towards him, her form becoming steadily clearer as she approaches through the mist. He had not spoken to her a great deal on the physical plane but he remembers her death; it was not that long before his own and equally as cruel. She too knows how it feels to be pierced by the ceaseless fire from a musket, to feel the life be drained from her, and moreover, she knows how it feels to die for someone she loves. Perhaps that is why she is here? There can surely be no other reason.
“Eponine… I don’t understand,” he begins and is pleased and somewhat comforted by the fact that she not only sees him but hears him too. It was starting to feel unbearably lonely in his isolation in this strange place.
She is smiling as she stands before him, her head slightly tilted with a gentle and empathetic understanding of the pain she knows he has felt; the pain she knows he is still feeling; the reason why she is here. She is close enough now that he can just about see the swirls of dusty mist rising behind her through the haze of her ghostly image, yet he can also see the gunshot wound she still bares likes a medal of honour, only now it no longer has any power to yield. The damage is done, yet somehow she is smiling, as if she has some kind of grasp of joyous peace. How is that possible in a place such as this? In the muted image of her face, her dark eyes shine brightly and her bedraggled garments, still dirty with dry blood and grime, seem to float about her body like an ethereal cloak, almost as if they are made from a million butterfly wings. She is the embodiment of tragedy and she wears it beautifully.
“You will understand… It is why I’m here, friend. Follow me and I will help you see.” And with that, she turns her back on him and walks – or rather, seems to float – away, and Grantaire has to hurry to keep her in his sights for she blends so well into the dusky clouds.
He is certain he can feel something of a breeze and an airiness that he couldn’t feel a moment ago as they walk from the darker shadows into an array of dusty light beams, and it takes him a moment to realise that they are now outside and the light he can sense is coming from the sun somewhere way above, fighting to find a clear path down through the smog. Eponine turns to face him again and the vision of her is a little clearer now. She smiles again but he is distracted by the way her coat sleeve seems to be dissolving before his eyes, as if the very threads of material are unravelling one by one from her shoulder down her arm. He gasps when it rises again from her skin with a very gentle sound of fluttering and he realises it’s not material at all but the wings of a dozen or so butterflies, just as the shadows had hinted. He watches as the cluster they had formed separates and individually, they rise and fly away in different directions, becoming lost in the hazy mist, the magnolia tint of their wings pearlescent as they catch the occasional gleam of sunlight.
“Are you real?” he asks and feels absurd asking such a question when he’s not sure that ANY of this is real, including himself.
“I am as real as you or anyone else is in this place,” she says.
“There are others here?”
She indicates to something somewhere to his left with a nod of her head and he turns and squints through the fog to the silhouette trying to reveal itself in the distance. It is not one silhouette but two, and together they make the images of Courfeyrac and Combeferre, knelt together on the ground, their foreheads resting against each other, arms holding each other close. No sound or movement is coming from either of them and they are so motionless it is almost like staring at a statue rather than the ethereal images of his friends, yet he can’t look away and he can’t bring himself to call out to them; it seems too disrespectful somehow. There is something in the way they are holding each other, the emotion that is almost visible like a warm cloud shrouding their bodies; to infringe on the tempestuous grasp of peace they seem to be trying to nurture between them would be cruel. As he watches, another shadow approaches the two men. It is a smaller shadow, more sprightly and energetic but just as silent and this shocks him even more because it is Gavroche and the boy was never silent in the land of the living. No words are spoken but as Gavroche reaches the two men huddled on the ground, Courfeyrac extends an arm and the young boy snuggles into the warmth of it. The dark silhouette, now even bigger in the distance, seems to glow for a second as if it’s been lit up from the inside out and Grantaire watches in quiet awe as that light grows more intense. After a second, it becomes so bright that he has to look away and when he looks back the image of his friends and the young boy have disappeared.
“What happened?” he asks Eponine, and when he looks back at her he is sure there is a sheen of tears glistening in her eyes, though the smile is still on her lips. “Where did they go?”
“They found their key.”
“Key?”
She is distracted from answering for a moment by the small cluster of butterflies that are rising from her other shoulder, leaving not exposed skin this time but nothing at all, as if she is slowly vanishing one tiny pair of wings at a time. She reaches out a hand and one of the butterflies rests for a moment upon her finger, making her laugh softly, before it pushes itself back into the air and she watches the flash of azure wings as it fades into the sky.
“This is a kind of waiting place,” she explains, her eyes still on the sky. “Souls that aren’t complete wait here for their key to move on.”
“Move on to what?”
At this, she looks at him with sad eyes. “I don’t know. Peace, I believe. Something better. Something more. The next adventure. A person can’t start the next part of their story until they have all their missing pieces.”
“Their loved ones? But Gavroche is your brother.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t my key. Sometimes family isn’t about blood.”
“So what is your key?”
“I’m…. a little different,” she says, as a single butterfly rises from somewhere around her chest and flutters in the air between them for a moment before flying off. “I don’t have a key. I am… something else.”
Grantaire still understands no better but doesn’t press her for more details. It is her story, not his, and none of his business. What he is more interested in is his own story and what part she is playing in it. As yet another pair of little wings rise from her form, he absentmindedly reaches out a hand towards it but draws it back in alarm when the winged creature flies right through his fingers and he feels nothing of its touch.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she says quickly. “You won’t be able to feel much here. That is normal.”
Grantaire crosses his arms across his chest and tries to hold himself securely but there is nothing there to feel and nothing there to hold onto. He glances down at his ethereal body. It feels as if a strong gust of wind would blow him away into nothing forever and he is scared. He doesn’t want to go like this. “I can’t… can’t even feel myself.”
“Of course not, silly!” Eponine laughs but there is kindness in her voice. “You haven’t found your key yet. You won’t be able to feel anything until you do.”
“What is my key then? And where do I find it?”
“I’ll show you,” she says and starts to walk away, the mist quickly trying to swallow her up again.
Grantaire follows her and says nothing but the further they walk, the darker the light becomes until they are making their way from one shadow to another, with little reprieve between them. The light becomes so sparse, it is hard to see each other but Grantaire can feel the presence of the woman beside him as they move forward. There is a growing feeling of discontent that appears to be building upon the very particles of air that surrounds them; everything is becoming colder, restless, an anxious energy flicking at the edges like unleashed electricity, growing stronger with the darkness, and it is impossible not to feel the effects of it.
“You don’t flinch. Aren’t you scared?” Eponine’s voice echoes somewhere at his side.
“I’ve known too much darkness in life to be scared of any shadows in death,” Grantaire replies. “And besides, I was an unholy mess before I came here. Why should I expect my key to be anywhere but a place as dark as this?”
“No one loves the light like the blind man.”
“It strikes me there’s not much light to be found here.”
She is smiling again and he doesn’t need to be able to see it to know it this time; he can hear it in her voice. “You will see Grantaire. You will see.”
After a while the darkness begins to lift just a little, not much but enough to see each other by. It is a softer warmer light that is trying to break through, like a single candle flame trying to hold its own in an empty cathedral at midnight. If there are walls around them (for it can’t be known for sure in such intense darkness) then they are certainly attempting to enclose them in this dank place. The airiness and light of the open has well and truly vanished. Shadowy silhouettes are trying to make themselves visible but they are just shapeless clouds of black in the distance.
“What is this place?” Grantaire asks and shivers because though he can no longer feel the physicality of coldness, he is none the less aware that this particular place has it in abundance.
Eponine’s smile has gone. “This is where the lost souls hide.”
“Lost souls?”
“Those who can’t let go. Usually those who have died in spectacularly unjustified manners or those that carry an immense burden of sadness with them from the physical realm and can’t allow it to depart them for one reason or another. Too much pain tethers them to this dark corner where they are kept captive by it, awaiting release by the only thing that can bring them freedom and peace.” When Grantaire throws her yet another look of confusion, she goes on to explain “Their key. These poor souls are awaiting their keys just as you are searching for yours only you have the ability to actively look for it. Fortunately, you don’t need to look any further though.”
Eponine doesn’t say anymore but brings an arm up to point towards a dark shape before them and as she does so, a gentle cascade of light seems to fall from her outstretched arm onto the object in question. Not an object at all, in fact, but a man, or rather what remains of one.
As the soft glow illuminates the figure in greater detail, Grantaire forgets about Eponine, he forgets about the darkness around him, he forgets about himself, and he rushes forward, dropping onto his knees before him.
“Enjolras?”
Slowly, the other man raises his head from his knees but his arms are still clutched tightly around his legs, as if he’s trying to curl himself up into as small an entity as possible, and there is a crumpled, ripped and stained piece of bright red material bundled up in his lap. Grantaire’s eye goes to it briefly because he knows that flag too well, before he looks back to the sad eyes of the man who is beholding him in quiet confusion.
“Grantaire… what are you doing here? You must not be in a place like this. It is horrid and you don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you,” says Grantaire calmly. It is an odd feeling but he can already feel a kind of peace washing over him just by being in this man’s presence. It is akin to how he felt in the physical realm but more so. There was always longing there, and certainly love in plentiful amounts in the undisclosed realm of his heart and mind, but never a feeling of peace like this.
He realises now that even if he wanted to get up and walk away from this man, he couldn’t. As soon as they acknowledged each other, he became tied to the other man’s tortured soul, unable to separate himself yet not wanting to. If eternity means wasting away in a dark pit of anguish and despair then he will happily choose that if it means he can stay with this man. It is no hardship at all. Grantaire glances back over his shoulder but Eponine has gone.
“This is my penance,” says Enjolras. “But it is not yours.”
The pain that is overflowing in the other man reaches Grantaire, seeping into his own soul, and he wants to fall further forward and draw Enjolras into his arms, yet he knows it is pointless even trying given that he can’t feel anything here. Trying to touch the man he loves so dearly and finding only air beneath his fingertips would be pain incomparable with any he has ever known. Instead, he fixes him with a strong gaze and holds it with all the energy of every drop of love he has ever felt.
“There is no need for penance Enjolras. You have done nothing wrong.” He speaks quietly, fearful that if he shows too much emotion in any form, he will inadvertently make the other man vanish somehow. It is hard to keep it contained and he is actually glad for once to have had plenty of practice doing exactly that on the physical plane.
“I killed my friends. I failed them. I failed myself. I failed my country. How is that not worthy of penance?”
“You did none of those things. You have failed no one, least of all your country. You have given your life fighting for your country to be free. Your blood will water the meadows of France, Enjolras, and not a drop will be wasted. Don’t you see what you have achieved?”
Enjolras’ face contorts in pain and he tries to look away from Grantaire only to find he is unable to. “How can you say such a thing? I have achieved nothing!”
“You fought with everything you had until the very last moment and you have left an imprint on the very fabric of our country’s soul. Others will rise to take our place, led by your example and our country will be free because of the actions they take; actions that were borne in your sacrifice, even if you can’t see it now, and even if you’re not there to witness it. Enjolras, you have given life to the future with your death. How can you not see that?”
“But my friends…”
“Your friends followed you because they believed in the same thing as you. They chose their own paths and they will have found their reward for their sacrifice. They will be given their peace,” says Grantaire as an image of Combeferre and Courfeyrac flashes back through his mind.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“What have you died for if not for my selfishness? You don’t believe in the cause. You don’t believe in anything. Your blood is on my hands.”
“Enjolras, I believe in you. I always have and I always will. I would take my place beside you for a million deaths in a million lifetimes and be happy to do so. It is not my blood on your hand, it is only my hand.” At this, he reaches out before he can stop himself, only this time it is not just air he feels. As he moves for Enjolras’ hand and clasps it, the solid feel of skin makes Grantaire stumble with shock. Evidently, from the way Enjolras’ eyes widen as his head shoots up, he is equally as surprised by the revelation.
“I can feel you!” Enjolras exclaims, springing forward onto his knees and staring at his strong hands as he clutches Grantaire by his shoulders. “I can feel my own hands again… I can feel my body! What is going on? What… Grantaire, what is this?”
Grantaire is not surprised now to find that he can feel a tear falling over his cheek as he brings his own trembling hands up to cup around Enjolras’ face. “You are my key, as it would seem I am yours.”
“Key? What do you mean… I don’t understand.”
But Grantaire just smiles as he feels the warmth of the light that is beginning to grow between them and as it gets steadily brighter, he leans forward and pulls Enjolras into his embrace. “Don’t worry, we have plenty of time for me to explain it to you.”
The light in that dark corner is so bright for a moment that it would be blinding for anyone close enough to witness it and when, a moment later, it dims back into darkness, there is now an empty space on the floor.
Somewhere not too far away, however, there is a girl stood upon the remains of a barricade, looking up into the sky. She doesn’t see the single butterfly that detaches itself from her body until it flies up into her line of sight and she catches the colour of its bright wings, one a vibrant red and the other a deep emerald green, fluttering together in harmony to raise it into the sky above where it disappears into the bright sunlight. And she smiles as she feels the larger feathery wings start to grow from her own spine before she closes her eyes, takes in a deep breath, and stretches them out for the first time, lifting herself up into the heavens.